Kuan Yü quickly regained the carriage, and as they went along side by side he told Sun Chʻien what had happened. Several days later a heavy rain storm came on which soaked everything. Looking about for protection they noticed a farm under the shelter of a precipice and took their way thither. An old man came out to them, to whom they told their story. When they had finished, the old fellow said, “My name is Kuo Chʻang and I have lived here many years. I am very pleased to greet the man whom I have known so long by reputation.” He quickly killed a sheep for their refreshment and brought out wine for the two men. The two ladies were entertained in the inner apartments. And while they refreshed themselves their baggage was put out to dry and their steeds were fed. As the day closed in they saw several youths come along and their host said, “My son is come to pay his respects.” “This is my stupid son,” said he, presenting a lad to Kuan Yü. “What has he been doing?” asked Kuan. “He has just come in from hunting.” The young fellow went out. The old man continued, “All my family have been farmers or scholars. He is my only son and instead of following in the footsteps of his ancestors he cares for nothing but gadding about and hunting, unhappily.” “Why unhappily?” said Kuan Yü. “In these days of disorder a good soldier can make a name for himself.” “If he would only learn the military arts that would be something of a career, but he is nothing but a vagabond and does everything he should not. He is a grief to me.” Kuan Yü sighed in sympathy. The old gentleman stayed till a late hour and when he took his leave his two guests began to prepare for rest. Suddenly outside there arose a great hubbub, men shouting and horses neighing. Kuan Yü called to his people, but as no one answered he and his companion drew their swords and went into the stable yard. There they found their host’s son on the ground shouting to his followers to fight. Kuan Yü asked what it was all about and his men told him that the young fellow had tried to steal Red Hare, but had been badly kicked. They had heard shouting and had gone to see what it meant when the farm people had set on them. Kuan Yü was very wrathful. “You mean thieves! Would you steal my horse?” cried he. But before he could do anything his host came running out saying, “It was not with my consent that my son did this evil thing. I know he is very guilty and deserves death. But his mother loves him tenderly and I pray you to be generous and pardon him.” “Really he is unworthy of his father,” said Kuan Yü. “What you told me shows he is a degenerate. For your sake I pardon him.” Then he told his own people to keep a better lookout, sent the farm people about their business and, in company with Sun Chʻien, went away to rest.